The echo of your presence

When darkness tries to shackle my hands,
your smile gleams in the corner like the fireflies
When life silently decays into ruin,
the breeze whispers to me, carrying your scent.

These cafés,
the riversides, the hilltops...
there is no place in this city
where you are not reflected.

These melodies,
the rhythm of my heartbeat...
and the collages of emptiness
there is no tune
where you are not echoed.


You are so close to me
like the shore is to the river,
like the waves are to the moon.

Scattered beyond my solitude,
stretching to the edges of the universe...
where is your presence not found, my love?
Where is it not?


On the timeline you painted,
a Picasso still lives
sketching your form in every dusk and dawn.
In the artistic visions shaped by your tenderness,
a Neruda still writes
poems of love.

That unbearable weight of separation
was a bitter truth,
yet its constant blows of sorrow
turned me into a sculptor.
Now, this barren chest
I have transformed it into a museum of love,
where even your absence feels worthy of devotion.


Thus,
love cannot be buried
beneath a grave,
Nor does it burn upon funeral pyres...

As
For lovers,
death is but an illusion, my dear!!

Reviews

[Neha agrawal]

This is absolutely breathtaking. A lament woven in silk and ash — it's a love poem, yes, but also a spiritual elegy, a personal mythology carved from grief and devotion. Your imagery is vivid and expansive, yet deeply intimate:

> “There is no place in this city where you are not reflected.”
“A Picasso still lives, sketching your form in every dusk and dawn.”
“Now, this barren chest I have transformed into a museum of love…”



Each metaphor — fireflies, riversides, echoes, sculpture — serves as a tribute to love that refuses to vanish, even in the face of silence, loss, or death. It’s haunting and beautiful, and that final declaration:

> “As for lovers, death is but an illusion, my dear!!”



— feels like a triumphant whisper across lifetimes.

This piece stands on its own like a monologue in a film where the camera doesn’t cut — it lingers, stays, breathes.